


The Ballad of the Bluebird

by PaladinGarrus



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Jaws of Hakkon, POV Multiple, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6590194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaladinGarrus/pseuds/PaladinGarrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raised as an oddity in Comtesse Marguerite's collection of freaks, Atheril struggles with fitting in. Once the events at the Conclave destroy the world as she knew it, she is thrown in the middle of the struggles of the Inquisition. The change is harsh and adapting is difficult. Fortunately there is a flock of trusty companions to see her through the hardships, offering the clanless elf the chance to build a new life for herself and others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The non-herald Herald

Atheril was pulled forward, having lost control of her own hand. The mark on her left palm pulsated and crackled with raw force, amplified by the focused power of the templars lined in neat rows behind her. She cried out as a stream of radiating green light burst from the mark, connecting with the Breach.

An explosion shook the temple ruins as the Breach shattered in a blinding blast, throwing everyone away from the centre and momentarily rendering them deaf with the thunderous crack of uncontrollable magic. Atheril’s back collided with the hard ground, knocking the wind out of her. Her hand was on fire and her heart threatened to follow the fate of the Breach, judging by the frantic beats that tried to break their way out of her chest.

The pain lessened. She pried her eyes open, staring at the clear sky in front of her.

The Breach was gone.

They had done it.

Only a blue scar in the sky served as a reminder of the tear that used to be. The joined power from the templars and her mark had healed the garish green wound in the Veil, sealing it for good.

Atheril let out a jagged breath of relief as she pushed herself up. Her hood had fallen to her shoulders, so she pulled it back in place, tucking the hair neatly in the dark folds of the fabric. The people around her were getting up as well, looking around in awe.

“The Herald has closed the Breach!” The shout from a templar prompted the crowd to burst out in cheers. People started shouting her name. No, not her name. The Herald of Andraste. Atheril hunched her shoulders and stepped back, unsure how to react to that.

Cassandra approached her with a rare smile, though her eyes remained cautious. “You did it.” She sounded as if she didn’t quite believe what had happened. Atheril was not surprised. Even after the months she had spent travelling and gathering troops under the constant scrutiny of Seeker Pentaghast, there was a certain distance between the two women, a level of distrust neither was willing to let go.

They remained quiet on their way back to Haven, despite the chatter of the troops following them. Atheril tugged the hood closer around her head, feeling the piercing glance of her companion. She knew the most probable reason for Cassandra’s poorly veiled resentment towards her, but it wasn’t anything she could fix. She had no way of going back in time to change the present, to swap her survival for someone else’s life.

Atheril felt relieved when Cassandra excused herself after they had given a report to the advisers in Haven’s chantry. The day had been exhausting enough without another interrogation about whether she could remember anything about Divine Justinia or what were her real ambitions. She leaned against the wall and let out a sigh, cupping her forehead in her palm that was still covered in sweat from her exertion at the temple.

“You should join the celebrations.”

The soft voice startled her. She looked up at the weary face of Commander Cullen, exhaustion showing in the deep ridges on his forehead and wrinkles around his eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought everyone had left.” Her normally throaty voice was a bit higher due to being surprised by his presence. She wiped her palm in the modest dark outfit covering her, shoulders hunched with stress.

“I was just about to do that, but you looked like you could use some company.” Cullen gave her a small smile, the scar on his upper lip moving along. “You seem unnecessarily deflated for someone who just closed the Breach.”

“And you bear a similar look.” Atheril shook her head. “I guess I’m not ready for celebrations yet. We still don’t know who did this or why. And whether they could repeat it.”

“I had similar ideas. But you should join the celebrations anyway.” His hand brushed away a stray speck of dust from her shoulder, his touch fleeting and gentle. “They all want to see the woman who saved them.”

Atheril sighed. “I wish people would stop saying that. It was the templars and the mark. My only role was being the unfortunate person who has the mark attached to her, that’s all.” She raised her left hand to stare at the gentle green glow still emitting from it. Cullen clasped her hand in his calloused ones, closing it into a loose fist to hide the mark. Atheril wasn’t sure what warmed her more – the touch or the soft smile that was meant for her alone.

“You are selling yourself short again. This mark would be nothing without the person who decided to use it for the good of everyone in Thedas. Whether you like it or not, you are the symbol of hope for a lot of people. Relax for one evening. Go enjoy your party.”

She raised her glance to meet his eyes. “Are you not joining?”

“I’m afraid not.” He released her hand and she felt the cold seeping back immediately, feeling disappointed that he had let go. “Go, they are waiting for you.”

And she did go, despite the tinge of anxiety in her stomach. The tavern was a chaos of half-drunken people, music and laughter. It was like a messier version of Comtesse Marguerite’s parties when they stretched late into the night, though with considerably less masks and tiny cakes. Atheril was grateful for both, since one gave her chills and the other cravings that were never satisfied.

Atheril found a seat near the fireplace, stretching her fingers towards the fire. The warmth eased the pain in her left palm, soothing her fraying nerves almost as effectively as Cullen’s touch. She stopped her thoughts there, focusing instead on the way the light from the flames danced on her tawny beige skin, creating patterns that changed with every moment. She let out a content sigh, savouring the heat for a while before turning her attention to the people in the room.

She recognised some familiar faces in this sea of celebrating people. Blackwall gave a nod and some words of praise before retreating to a corner, his drink as his only companion. The reclusive Grey Warden seemed to enjoy the general chaos of people around him, even if he chose to not actively partake in the festivities. A barely noticeable smile crossed his face as he cradled the beer in his hands, making Atheril wonder what was on his mind.

A strong musky scent pulled her attention away from Blackwall. The Iron Bull was grinning down at her, a tankard of beer in each hand. “Congratulations, boss! Here, something to quench your thirst.” He set one of the tankards on the table in front of her, spilling some froth with the movement. The Bull clapped his giant hand on her shoulder, his grin still firmly in place, before moving on. He had a drinking competition with Sera to attend to.

“Enjoying the party?” Varric smiled at Atheril as he made a templar scoot over, freeing a spot next to her. “Please tell me you are not about to join that competition though. It would be a sorry end to the Herald of Andraste, dying of alcohol poisoning.”

“Not you too,” groaned Atheril, arranging her hood again despite the warmth of the tavern. “I’m no herald.”

“You don’t believe in the Maker?” Varric had no judgement in his voice, only genuine curiosity. “I guess that makes sense, he’s not exactly the god of your people.”

She didn’t respond immediately. The words took some arranging in her head before she felt comfortable with expressing them out loud. “I think all gods can exist together in some way. What you call the Maker, the elves call by several different names. However, I don’t believe I’m the herald of anything. I was just unfortunate enough to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Varric’s eyes widened in mild surprise. “It almost sounds like you don’t count yourself as one of the elves. Pardon the bluntness, but it’s a rare sight.” His gaze darted to the table where Sera and Bull were drinking and bantering in equal measure. “I mean, there’s some who don’t seem to care who they are, but most of them can’t seem to shut up about their heritage and the injustices they’ve endured.”

He paused, jerking his head backwards as if he had just realised what he had said. “Sorry. That was unkind of me. I assure you I have nothing against elves. Just meant to say I’m surprised at your attitude towards being one.”

Atheril gave a rueful smile. “It’s difficult to count yourself as anything if you don’t really know where you belong. Can I really claim the culture of the people I’ve barely even met in my life?” She took a sip of her beer, wincing at the bitter taste. Varric rubbed the light stubble on his chin, eyes locked on Atheril.

“You know, it strikes me that I don’t really know that much about you. What’s the story of the non-herald Herald?”

“I’m not sure there’s anything very fascinating to tell.” Atheril shrugged, absentmindedly massaging the mark that was flaring up again. “I spent my life serving the family of Comtesse Marguerite du Bois. Did the hair of her and her daughters, delivered tea and cakes to her, entertained with reading and singing when needed… it’s not really anything special.”

“So the saviour of Thedas was a Lady’s maid in Orlais?” Varric quirked his eyebrow in amusement. “Can’t say I’ve heard of such duties involving entertainment though.”

“It wasn’t really that bad.” Atheril gave a small smile that was quickly replaced with a grimace as she took another sip. “As opposed to this drink, I should say. The Comtesse never really let me drink anything alcoholic, which I should be grateful for.”

“Not all drinks are as horrid as the swill here,” chuckled Varric. “Just wait, I’ll get you a proper one once we’re out of this ass end of the world. Your duties though… it’s rather rare for a noble to choose an elf as her personal maid. No offence.”

Atheril let out a short laugh, her low voice rumbling in her chest. “None taken. It’s not like I saw many of my kind around where I lived. Comtesse Marguerite was the first in her circle of nobles to get an elf. She gathered exotic things, so as a child I was shown around, much as a toy or a family pet would be. As I grew older, duties were added. Later on, her friends started finding elven servants for themselves as well, so I wasn’t a novelty anymore.”

She almost didn’t pull a face as she took her third sip of beer, a deep one this time. She didn’t like the pity that had appeared in Varric’s eyes.

“Shown around? “Get an elf”? Atheril, that’s…” He frowned, at a loss for words. “That reminds me of another elf I know. And that’s probably not a good comparison.”

She focused her glance on the fireplace and tried to give a nonchalant shrug. “It really wasn’t that bad. I had a pretty easy life compared to the other servants. Her collection of exotic things was untouchable, at least as long as they still offered her intrigue. Once she grew bored…” She paused and pushed her hair further under the hood, even though it had been sufficiently covered. “Well, that’s when she got creative. But it was still easier than being among the kitchen help.”

She rubbed the back of her neck before turning towards Varric, a suspicious look on her face. “Why are you interested in this anyway?”

Varric waited until a particularly loud roar from the Bull had died down before responding. “Why? For the chronicles, of course! Someone has to put the story of the hero who sealed the Breach down in writing at some point.” He glanced towards the centre of the room, where Sera was triumphantly perched on the edge of a table, mocking the Bull who sat drenched from horns to boots. Someone had clearly decided he should bathe in the bitter swill the tavern labelled as beer. “I’m not sure what the rules of their game were, but it seems that Sera has emerged victorious in this particular contest.”

He let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head at Sera’s antics. “Well, remind me to never-“

He didn’t get to finish as he was cut off by the sharp toll of the alarm bell. An uneasy quiet hovered over the crowd for a moment, before erupting in a discord of worried voices. Atheril jolted up, hands reaching for her daggers. Without waiting for Varric, she pushed her way through the crowd, trying to reach the outside before everyone else started to move and block her path.

Cullen rushed from the chantry, looking even more tired than before. His voice strained to be heard over the noise of the bells. “Forces approaching! To arms!” His eyes met with Atheril’s, her grim dread reflecting back to her from his look. She joined his race towards the gates without a word, running past groups of refugees and templars who had been celebrating just moments ago.

They met with Cassandra near the gates. Their group of three quickly expanded as the rest of the advisors joined them, Josephine’s normally meticulously set hair dishevelled by the wind and Leliana’s expression an unsettling mixture of steely determination and uncertainty. Josephine and Atheril exchanged a worried glance before their eyes darted to observe the chaos that had descended upon Haven.

“Who are they, Cullen?” enquired Cassandra, the only one who did not appear to be out of breath. He shook his head.

“No way of telling. They don’t have any banners. But whoever they are, their forces are overwhelming. We do not have sufficient defences to stand against this kind of assault.” His hand was closed around the hilt of his sword, fingers flexing in anticipation.

“Perhaps we can negotiate with them,” offered Josephine, though even she did not seem convinced of the plausibility of that idea.

Leliana responded with a humourless smile. “Someone with such a force and no banners is not here to negotiate. They are out for blood.”

Atheril felt a chill stealing all the warmth she had soaked up, icy dread taking hold of her heart and holding it hostage. That was it. Sealing the Breach had bought them some extra time, but it hadn’t been enough. They were doomed.

An agitated voice from behind the gates interrupted the discussion. “If someone could open this, I’d appreciate it.”

Atheril rushed let the stranger in, knowing that the unknown army was nearly upon them. The heavy wooden gates refused to budge as she tugged on the latch, her boots helplessly sliding on the snow as she tried to find her footing. Cullen’s gloved hands joined her effort. Together, they pulled the gates open, revealing a dark-haired man. He had fallen down on one knee, gasping for air. She was about to offer her help to get him up, but noticing the staff he was leaning on made her stop in her tracks. Cullen stepped up, sword unsheathed in caution. “Who are you? State your business.”

The man pulled himself up with the help of his staff, his movements showing a mixture of exhaustion and elegance. “I’m here to warn you. Fashionably late, I’m afraid.” He faltered, prompting Cullen to catch him and set him back on his feet.

“I have news from the mages at Redcliffe, but unfortunately not of the pleasant kind. They are under the command of the Venatori, in service to something called the Elder One.” His glance fell to Atheril, whose hand was flaring with an angry green glow, reacting to her fear. “The Herald of Andraste. They are coming for you.”


	2. Of lions and dragons

The blasted snow was everywhere. It stuck to his face, melting for a moment and then refreezing, coating his skin with a thin layer of ice. It gathered on his shoulders, creating small mounds that he grew tired of brushing off. It stung his eyes as he stubbornly tried to keep them open, checking whether he was still going in the right direction.

The lights of Haven flickered in the distance. Still on track.

Dorian cupped his hands and tried to warm them with his breath. Whatever other issues Tevinter had, at least it was warm. This snow nonsense was ridiculous. He found it difficult to believe some people actually lived in such a climate, spending half their lives freezing their buttocks off. What a miserable way to exist.

Speaking of buttocks, his were so numb that he could swear he had left them behind at his last campsite. Pity, he had been rather fond of them. What wouldn't he give for a warm bath with some scented oils to soothe his skin…

A glance to his left made Dorian swear. The army was steadily approaching, their torches forming a crawling caterpillar on the distant mountainside. He was cutting this warning very close. So close, in fact, that it might turn out to be completely useless. Muttering curses under his breath, he forced himself to speed up, dragging his feet through the deep snow.

By the time he reached the gates of Haven, his lungs were burning from exertion and the cold, making every breath a painful stab in his chest. The gates were shut. Of course they were. If they hadn't been, he would seriously have doubted the sanity of those running the Inquisition.

He heard voices from behind the gate, so close yet out of reach. With his remaining strength, any attempt at knocking on the gates would have been about as effective as a kitten pawing at it. His voice was still functional, so he gathered all his power to make it loud. "If someone could open this, I'd appreciate it."

The effort it took to get his voice out drained the last of his energy. Before he got any kind of response, he sunk to one knee, trying to catch his breath. The cold sliced through his throat with a knife made of ice, making him gasp in pain.

The gates opened. A woman and a man stepped forward, worry written in every line on their faces. She was on the small side, a feeble little thing wrapped in a nondescript robe with some leather accents. Her hood was far too big, concealing her head down to her eyebrows that scrunched up as she spotted Dorian's staff. Ah. Not a fan of mages then.

The man didn't seem to suffer from the kind of modesty she had shrouded herself with. His armour boasted a fur lining so big that it nearly overshadowed his strong frame and the scowl on his face. Dorian quirked the corner of his mouth as he found the man unsheathing his sword in caution. The lion must have a rabbit's heart, if he needs a weapon against someone who can't even stand.

"Who are you? State your business," demanded the man with the lion mane. Dorian wasn't sure how warm the reception would be if he announced who he was. It seemed safe to assume that they probably wouldn't be rolling out the red carpet and showering him in rose petals. News before name it was then.

He pulled himself up, feeling his muscles scream out in protest. "I'm here to warn you. Fashionably late, I'm afraid." Strong arms caught him as he lost his balance. Alright, so perhaps the lion wasn't that bad after all.

Dorian rushed his words, telling of the mages and the Venatori. His focus shifted as he noticed a strange green light. The small woman's hand was glowing. It was definitely magical in origin, but something felt very off. It was stronger than anything he had ever felt, sending odd pulses through the air and singing to him with a low hum that spoke of old magic.

"The Herald of Andraste. They are coming for you."

As he said the words, the Herald blanched and took a step back. "For me? No. I have nothing to offer. What could they want of me?" Her glance fell to the hand that was glowing stronger in response to the news. She took in a sharp breath, closing her hand in a fist. "They want the mark."

"That would be the most plausible explanation, yes." Dorian leaned on his staff and looked over his shoulder to check for danger. The army was on a steady approach, the dim lights of the mages' staffs inching ever closer. "Look, perhaps we can discuss the details of this _inside_? Would be terribly unfortunate to be caught out here by the army."

The attention turned from him to the Herald as they retreated to the safety of Haven's walls. Dorian didn't mind, since it gave him a chance to observe the people and see what he was getting involved with. Too bad the involvement promised to be very short.

"Cullen, is there a plan? Anything?" The Herald looked up at the man who had sheathed his sword, apparently having decided Dorian wasn't an immediate threat. So that was Commander Cullen. Not quite what Dorian had pictured, but he definitely didn't have any complaints.

"We can't let them lay siege to Haven." Cullen shook his head, giving a once-over to the walls and gates separating them from impending doom. "This is no fortress. We must control the battle if we are to have a chance."

The Herald raised her glance to the mountainside. The mages and soldiers looked like ants from that distance, crawling on the narrow mountain paths like they were coming from their giant ant hill. "What about the trebuchets?" She pointed at the top of the mountain. "It's probably a crazy idea, but what if we aimed them up there? We could bury them in the snow."

"Not that crazy at all. That could work." Cullen frowned as the Herald nodded and started moving after his admission. "Atheril, you can't go alone, you'd be taken down before you reach the first trebuchet. We need to gather the forces."

His glance fell to Dorian. "You, we will have to talk about this Elder One and his plans later. Josephine, could you accompany –"

"Dorian," he offered, interrupting Cullen with a small smile.

"Could you accompany Dorian to the Chantry?" finished Cullen, hand on the hilt of his sword as he prepared to rush off and gather the troops. "Just get him something to eat and perhaps a potion to counter the frostbite. I will meet you there later."

"Certainly." The lady who had identified herself as Josephine took over, guiding Dorian to the Chantry. The building was nowhere near the grandest he had seen, but it was an alright attempt for Fereldans. He imagined they valued practicality over luxury, which made sense for Haven. Why splurge on intricate carvings if you're not sure where your next meal comes from? People from cold climates sure had it hard.

He had been hoping for a nice warm room with perhaps a fireplace and some mulled wine. His hopes were crushed the moment they entered the Chantry. It was only marginally warmer inside. Nevertheless, he was grateful for a dry seat and a hot bowl of soup. It was sufficient for the moment, so he rejected other offers of help.

"No, truly, I'm fine. I just need to catch my breath." He smiled at Josephine who had been insistent in trying to get him to drink some foul-smelling potion. It reeked of rotten plants and fennec piss. He eyed the open vial, gesturing that he was not about to take it. "I'm sure there's people who need it far more than I do." His expression darkened, hearing the noises coming from the outside. "Or soon will be."

His break didn't last for long. As Haven descended into a chaos of clanging steel and sizzling spells, the injured started arriving in a steady stream. They stumbled into the Chantry in ones and twos, some supported by their companions who re-joined the battle as soon as they had handed their friend in the care of the Chantry sisters.

Feeling his strength returning, Dorian felt compelled to join in assisting the injured. The sisters looked apprehensive at first, but as more injured templars arrived, they accepted his offer. He set to work, bandaging wounds and handing out potions to those with the gravest injuries. His yearning for a bath increased with every passing minute. The Chantry was an unholy mess of broken bodies, scared children and the smell of blood and fire. Not his average evening, that's for sure.

The doors opened to reveal another wounded soldier. She was limping slightly, her face a canvas painted with fear and despair. Cullen walked by her side, supporting her when needed. Dorian stood up, rubbing his hands in a piece of cloth to clean them of blood. He needed a second look at the soldier to realise it was the Herald. She really didn't stand out much, which was odd for a person about whom most of Thedas had heard by now.

Cullen helped her take a seat near Dorian. The Herald – what was her name again? Athelas? Atheril? Yes, Atheril – she groaned as she sunk to the bench, left hand clenched in a tight fist, knuckles as white as snow. Cullen called for a healing salve before squatting down next to her. She closed her eyes as he relieved her of the leather greaves that had been strapped tight around her shins.

"You called for this?" Dorian presented the salve to Cullen personally. It would have been ridiculous to stay away from the two people who probably knew the most about the carnage outside. He was in the middle of making history. He could only hope his own part in history would stretch far beyond that particular evening.

"How are things out there?" The wording felt terribly off; it was as if he was asking about the weather. Dorian wasn't sure he had the right kind of vocabulary for such an occasion. How exactly should one ask about a battle that threatened to end the existence of all of them?

Cullen shook his head and focused on spreading the salve on Atheril's exposed skin. Her breeches had an ugly hole on her right leg, the fabric entirely melted away on the back of her calf. Fire magic. Dorian's fingers twitched in sympathy. Treating burn injuries was nasty business.

"They have a dragon." Atheril's voice was so quiet that Dorian could barely register the words she had said. She gave a wheezy gasp and gripped the edge of the bench as Cullen's fingers reached the worst parts of her leg. "There will be many more coming here." She released her grip to tap Cullen on the shoulder, her fingers lingering for a moment. "That's enough. There will be others who need it more."

"I doubt there is anyone who needs it more at this point." Dorian leaned on a pillar, his arms folded to keep some warmth in. That effort was probably cancelled out by having his back against a stone column, but he was past caring about such minor details. "The Elder One marched his forces all the way here from Redcliffe. For you. So I'd argue that you're the one that needs help the most."

"You're not helping." Cullen gave him a hard stare, compelling him to shut up. "Most of the army is gone, the trebuchets did exactly what we had hoped for. They don't work against a dragon though, the beast moves too fast." He wrapped Atheril's leg in bandages before setting the torn breeches back in place and securing the greaves. "This is the best I can do."

"And it will have to work," responded Atheril, a low tremble in her voice. "Thank you, Cullen."

Josephine, who had been kept away by her duties, made a beeline for their small group. "Herald! Thank Andraste you're alive, I heard about the dragon."

"I'm fine, just a small burn." The wince that accompanied Atheril's sentence made it sound far less convincing than what she had probably aimed for. "Any news from Leliana?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Josephine's face lit up. "She found the passageway. We can evacuate everyone before the dragon brings the Chantry down on us."

"The plan is excellent, as long as the mages don't realise that everyone has suddenly disappeared," said Dorian drily. He was still leaning against the pillar, though his back was growing stiff from the cold stone. "The part where they discover the passageway and slaughter us anyway is the less brilliant side of this strategy."

"We must offer them distraction." Cullen stood up, hand on his sword hilt. "There is still one more trebuchet set up. If they believed we were about to unleash that on their troops, they would be forced to act. We can bring the mountain down on Haven once everyone is far enough to not get caught in the avalanche."

"Ah, but this plan also has a hole." Dorian rolled the end of his moustache between his fingers, curling it upwards. "There has to be someone at the trebuchet. And as far as I know, even magic can't make a person be in two places at the same time. It's very difficult to be escaping through a tunnel while you are unleashing a trebuchet on a dragon."

"I'll do it." Atheril had stood up, a shaking hand planted on the pillar for support. She was so close to Dorian that he could hear her breath hitch as she spoke. "I'll go and draw their attention. It makes sense. They're after the mark, so it should be me."

"Except that this has you walking into certain death." Cullen had crossed his arms. "I can't allow that, not with you having the only means of closing the rifts." Something in Cullen's voice and the intense look in his eyes told Dorian that it wasn't just the rifts he was worrying about. Was the Commander sweet on the Herald? How romantic… or should he call it tragic, considering the predicament they were in?

"If it's anyone else, they will tear this place apart, looking for me." She checked the scabbards on her belt, making sure both daggers were still there. "I'll make them work for it. If nothing else, I might draw them away from the Chantry for long enough so the people can escape."

"As unpleasant as it is, this is our only chance." A short-haired woman with a scar on her cheek had joined the group. She looked like someone Dorian wouldn't want to bet against in a fight. Betting on her victory could earn a pretty penny though. He'd have to check whether the Inquisition did friendly fights for show in case they ended up surviving this mess. Just until the first blood, of course. Would be a waste of people otherwise.

"Cassandra, you can't be serious." Cullen's voice was saturated with exasperation. Perhaps he wasn't even trying to conceal it. Dorian hadn't expected this much emotion from a Fereldan man, but he didn't mind at all. Life without emotions would be terribly dull.

"What other option do we have?" Cassandra's response was tense and clipped. "She does have a point. Send anyone else and the search would continue until the Herald is found. Send her, and they might give up the chase for others."

"Then I will join her." The way Cullen's lips were pressed together said that his decision is not up for negotiation. Dorian fully expected Cassandra to say something anyway. To his surprise, it was Atheril who stepped up, putting her hand on Cullen's arm in a calming motion.

"No. You have to go with the people. They will need someone to guide them through the mountains, someone to look to. We can't sacrifice the Commander of the forces, the Inquisition has to survive."

"I will go with her," spoke Cassandra now, her jaw set in determination. "I will do my best to make sure she returns."

That was a bold display of courage, people competing over who got to sacrifice themselves. Anyone normal would have been running for the secret passageway the moment its existence was found. But no, there they were, trying to decide who got to run out and be slaughtered. Brave, yes. Ludicrous? Absolutely.

"I shall join as well." Dorian placed his hands on his hips, ready to face any arguments about why he would be a dreadful choice. He didn't have to wait for long.

"Absolutely not." Cassandra pressed the words out through clenched teeth. It was a wonder she was even capable of speaking like that. One could assume her jaw would cramp at some point. "We know nothing about you or your goals. How can we know you're not going to betray us the moment we turn our backs?"

"Ah, you saw through my cunning plan." Dorian twirled his moustache, the other hand still firmly planted on his hip. "I was to come here, gain your trust and embark on a noble quest with the Herald, only to feed her to the dragon outside."

"You know, it would have been easier to just hand Cullen a poisoned salve," suggested Atheril with a hint of a smile on her weary face.

"Yes, what a missed opportunity that was." Dorian placed a hand on his forehead in a dramatic motion.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. "We have no time for this nonsense."

"Indeed. You are both coming." Atheril reached out a hand with her palm towards Cassandra as the other woman started to protest. "If he had wanted to harm me, he could have done that a dozen times by now. Having a mage with us can help in battle and I don't see Solas or Vivienne around."

The Herald had some brains. And guts. Good. That made Dorian feel a bit better about offering himself up as a sacrificial lamb for the beast outside. At least he would die in intelligent company.

Their merry band of suicidal people grew to five, as a dwarf named Varric – a writer of sorts – and a Qunari with a pompous name The Iron Bull joined them. While the others were preparing for the inevitable battle, Dorian pretended to be busy checking his staff for damage. The feigned activity allowed him to eavesdrop on the goodbyes. It may have been a bit devious of him, but it would have been a waste to not observe. After all, he might as well know the people he was getting involved with.

His mouth quirked in a smile as he saw Cullen's hand hovering in the air before hesitantly placing it on her shoulder. The touch didn't last for long, but the longing and worry in his eyes told of the affection he couldn't physically express, at least not in their present company. Ah, young love… with all the butterflies and timid looks. Dorian chuckled.

"Atheril, please be safe." Cullen's voice was so hushed that Dorian had to strain to hear it. "The Inquisition needs you. I… I will be waiting for you to join us as soon as you can."

Dorian didn't catch Atheril's answer, but he did see her giving Cullen's hand a small squeeze before turning towards the door with her shoulders tense from stress. Cullen grabbed Cassandra's arm as the group was ready to leave.

"Look after her. And come back to us. Bring all of them back." His voice was still quiet, trembling with subdued emotion. He let out a sigh as Cassandra gave a curt nod. Having coughed his voice clear, he straightened his back and headed to work, gathering all remaining people to guide them towards the passageway.

Dorian allowed himself a bitter smile. His departure from home had been very different, with none of those emotional displays. Granted, his had been secret and with a considerably smaller chance of ending up as an evening snack for a dragon, but those were just minor details.

"Alright. Time to face our fate." Atheril's mask of bravery wavered as her voice cracked. She took in a deep breath and gave the Chantry door a push. And another. The Iron Bull chuckled.

"Need a hand with that, boss?" The Qunari gave the door a rough shove. It opened with a creak that was lost in the screams of the wounded. A dragon flew above the burning buildings, its wings brushing over the tip of a half-collapsed house.

Dorian gripped his staff tighter as he rushed forward with their small group, his breath catching in his throat.

"Andraste's flaming knickers. This is not how I imagined my life to end."


	3. Dawn will come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Important information in the notes at the end of this chapter!)

The pressure was building up again. It came in waves, gathering behind his eyes, making his head throb. The accompanying nausea made him crumple down, gnawing at his insides. The world narrowed as his forehead broke out in sweat and the shivers kicked in. No. There wasn't any time for weakness. She was still missing.

Cullen slid his hands over his face, the touch grounding him for a mere moment. Another rush of pain assaulted his head, invisible daggers stabbing at his temples. His head clouded up, thoughts shrouded in thick fog that numbed his senses. He needed to focus, to break through the walls in his mind. He couldn't afford to be anything less than his best. It was already a lost battle, but he kept trying.

He was so lost in his head that he barely registered the hesitant steps nearing the tent. He was the Commander, being caught in such a position was not acceptable. With great effort, he forced himself to straighten his back to face the messenger entering the tent. Faint hope rose in his chest, emerging through the fog and softening the pained expression on his face.

He kept his voice level, concealing his inner turmoil. "Any news?"

The messenger looked nervous, unsure where to place his arms. In the end, he settled for hiding them behind his back. "No, ser. The scouts have found no trace of the Herald."

Rage roared in Cullen's head, erasing all other emotions. His gloved fist collided with a tent pole, cracking the wood in a spray of splinters. A part of the tent caved in, enveloping Cullen in fabric.

Great. That was exactly what he had intended to do. To look like an ass in front of a messenger.

He fought his way out from the insistent embrace of the tent, eyes lit with indignation. The hard truth sunk in as he stared in the general direction of the messenger who hadn't dared to move nor comment on what he had witnessed.

She was gone. Atheril was gone.

Cullen curled his hands in fists. No. She had to be alive. She was their only hope. They needed her. He needed her.

Not wasting time to grace the messenger with a response, he strode from the tent and pushed past clusters of templars that had gathered near their Commander's post. He stopped in a small clearing between the tents they had put up over the days, letting his glance slide over the injured and otherwise distraught soldiers. The smell of blood and festering wounds was still ripe in the air, refusing to be blown away by harsh mountain winds that swept over the camp, making people shiver as they huddled for warmth. Cullen placed his hands on his hips in a defiant motion, challenging the cold and the scent of despair in the air.

"Inquisition!" His voice roared over the camp, silencing talks and drawing everyone's attention to him. "Are there still some soldiers left who are capable of scouting the area and finding the Herald? Do we have anyone who can actually fulfil their duty?"

His voice, low and angry and laced with venom, was met with silence and weary eyes. By the Maker, was this what the Inquisition was made of? Hopeless rabble. Hiding their tails between their legs as soon as disaster struck, instead of stepping up? Was this really the best they had?

"I'm available."

A dwarf in scout armour stepped forward, her ginger hair a mess and left cheek still bloodied by the attack on Haven. She looked familiar, but the haze in Cullen's head prevented him from recalling her name. She seemed to have noticed. "Scout Harding at your service, ser."

Cullen nodded. He had heard good things about her. Recruited by one of Leliana's people, if he wasn't mistaken. He had been mistaken too often recently. "Good. Anyone else?"

After a moment of hesitation, a few more people joined the circle, assembling a search party of six. That was sufficient. It was less than she deserved, but even Cullen himself had to admit he had been driving the soldiers too hard and that he was running out of rested forces to use. The past few days had been draining everyone of their hope and energy. They could sustain their bodies on the meagre food they had taken from Haven during the evacuation, but their minds were wilting. They would keep wilting unless something miraculous happened.

Atheril could be that miracle. Cullen refused even the idea that she could be dead. That was a ridiculous notion. She was the Herald of Andraste. She was alive. She had to be alive or they would all be doomed.

For the next few hours, he clung to his fervent need to find her alive. The image of Atheril safe and sound helped to drive back the song of lyrium in his blood, though even his resolve faltered when the mountains grew dark and their search had not achieved anything besides creating deep tracks that covered the snow in a criss-cross pattern.

"Ser, it's getting dark. We should head back before we lose track of our location." Scout Harding's suggestion was hesitant, her eyes slanted downward in worry. As much as Cullen didn't want to admit it, she was right. They hadn't eaten enough to stay out for this long and they lacked any way of showing light. Even the moon was hidden behind clouds, refusing to offer assistance.

Cullen let out a heavy sigh. "Alright. Time to head back." He let Harding lead the way and the others pass before him so he could make sure nobody was lagging behind. He was not losing any more men to these mountains.

His chest contracted with a pang of sorrow and pain as he took his position at the rear of the small group. This was not giving up. This was just a detour, a small break at the camp before he could head out again and continue the search. This was not over. Frostback Mountains would not claim Atheril if he had any say in it.

Cullen gave a final glance over his shoulder, trying to remember where they had been so he could choose a new section of the mountains to go through. He froze in place, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword for support. There, in the distance, was a light. A green light. The kind of otherworldly green that could only mean one thing.

"The Herald!" Cullen's shout echoed back on the mountains. He didn't bother waiting for others, breaking through the snow and slipping a few times in his haste. She had survived the avalanche. Andraste be praised, she was alive!

He was the first to reach her. Atheril had crumpled to the ground with her eyes shut, her normally warm beige skin coloured with an unpleasant blue tint, her lips chapped and pale. She looked more dead than alive. Cullen knelt next to her and pulled off his glove to touch her forehead, his fingers trembling. Maker's breath, she was freezing.

She pulled her eyes open, exhaustion evident from the tremors and sluggishness. "Cullen?" Her voice cracked. "Is it really you?" She tried to reach out a hand to touch him, probably to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. Cullen pressed her hand to his chest, a hint of a relieved smile playing in the corner of his mouth.

"It's really me. Thank Andraste, I was losing hope." He turned his head towards the scouts who were approaching. "She's alive!"

He spun back towards Atheril, only to find her trying to push herself up from the ground, limbs barely cooperating. "Let me help you."

Her pale blue eyes turned upwards, confusion drawing her eyebrows together. The expression made Cullen ache with a dull pain that had nothing to do with his physical exhaustion. Even after several months with the Inquisition, she had not learnt that she could ask for help, that she didn't have to do everything alone.

By the time the scouts reached them, Cullen had managed to pull Atheril to her feet. He wanted to sweep her up in his arms, but that would have been inappropriate. As much as he wanted to help, she was the Herald of Andraste. It would be a more powerful image to have her walk into the camp instead of being carried. Not that she was likely to have thought of that reasoning, since she still tried to avoid being called the Herald… but the reason was valid nonetheless.

She responded to the scouts' joy gracefully, thanking them for being in the search party. Her voice was raspy and dotted by hacking coughs, but nobody could hold it against her. It was a miracle she had survived.

Their way back to the camp was excruciatingly slow. Atheril leaned heavily on Cullen to keep herself upright and it was clear from her breathing that the effort was draining her last reserves. Cullen had to keep reminding himself that it was not his place to tell her how to handle the situation. Yes, he was in charge of the forces of the Inquisition, but in no way did he have a say over the personal choices of the Herald.

Of course he could argue that it wasn't entirely her personal choice, since a lot of people depended on her… but that was a slippery slope. That was mere steps away from dictating her moves, trapping her in place. Cullen shuddered.

He shot a look down at Atheril who clung to his side, strained breaths accompanying her sluggish steps. The mere thought of someone taking away her independence, forcing her to go through something she objected to… it made his head boil. They had come close to it a few times, with the council trying to figure out the best way forward without consulting the person who had to do the actual heavy lifting. The memories stabbed at him, drenching him in remorse. As much as they needed Atheril, she was not a property of the Inquisition.

It was never right to use the word "property" about a person, to limit their choices to a narrow selection that has been pre-approved by someone else. Younger Cullen may have had different ideas, lost in his head after what had happened in the Circle…

His free hand curled into a fist, memories of the torture he had endured flooding his head. He could still remember everything as if it was yesterday. But that was a long time ago and he was not the man he had been back then. That was in the past and he could not get stuck in what had once been. He needed his focus and energy for the present. Nobody else should go through what he had to endure; he would make sure of it.

He jolted to attention as Atheril's strength came to an end and she let out a soft breath as she slid towards the soft carpet of snow. With lightning reflexes, Cullen caught her before she could hit the ground. She opened her eyes as he cradled her in his arms, taking care to position her so that his metal armour wouldn't be touching her skin. "Just rest so you could walk again once we're near the camp. Preserve some of that energy."

Atheril nodded in response before letting her head tilt back with a sigh, eyes sliding shut. Maker, she looked fragile. Too small, too young to have such responsibilities. Yet she had hesitantly agreed to everything and ended up nearly sacrificing herself to save the others. Even as she needed someone to take care of her, she was still worrying about what her actions would look like and what people would think. It was an unfair burden on one person.

Cullen was reluctant to let Atheril know when they had nearly reached the camp. She needed more rest. She should be under heaps of blankets and drinking hot tea to warm up, not struggling to stay on her feet. But it was not his choice to make.

"We're almost there." He kept his voice gentle, allowing her some privacy from the scouts. To their credit, they had been very discreet. Not one of them had made a comment about her state. He'd have to make sure to personally thank them later for their service.

Atheril looked up from beneath her frost-covered lashes, weariness in her eyes. Cullen wished he could have left her to sleep. "Are you sure you wish to walk?" He gave her another chance to back out, to remain in his arms and get carried to the camp. He hoped she would take take that offer.

"I can do it." Her voice sounded like gravel, rough and raspy. Her face contorted in pain as Cullen lowered her to the ground, but she didn't make a sound. He held out his arm for her to hold on to, if needed. She hesitated for a moment, dragging her big hood lower over her head, but then closed both hands around his arm, her touch so feeble that it hurt Cullen to think about it.

They walked to the camp together like that, flanked by the scouts on both sides. It was good to see Harding on the other side of Atheril, always looking out and ready to offer support. Atheril had people she could lean on. If only she would see that herself…

Within moments, they were surrounded by a crowd. People were gaping at her, stunned that she was alive. Atheril smiled at them, even as her eyes looked strained with the effort to keep going. Her legs dragged on the ground, barely able to keep going, but still she didn't make a sound. Healers rushed to her, their assistants ready to carry her, but she refused with a small shake of her head.

Once they reached the healers' tent, Atheril thanked the scouts once more and relieved them of their duty. She kept the smile on her face until they were inside and the tent flaps had closed behind them, concealing them from the crowd. Cullen took a hold of her as she crumpled with a quiet gasp of pain; effortlessly lifting her back in his arms. Healers had set a bedroll ready for her, raised on a make-shift bench made out of some trees they had felled during the day.

"She was nearly frozen when we found her." Cullen placed her on the bedroll, taking care not to cause her any further pain. Atheril didn't say anything; she only clutched at her side, eyes squeezed shut. "I'm afraid the Herald may have overworked herself. She insisted on walking."

"We'll take it from here, Commander." A healer with more wrinkles than hair took over, nudging Cullen to make him step out of the way. Cullen nearly snarled at that, catching himself in action before the growl left his throat. Now that he didn't have to focus on making sure Atheril was alright next to him or in his arms, the maddening hum of lyrium was taking over once more, turning his train of thoughts into primal ideas that urged him to stay by her side, to protect her from harm. What that harm was, he didn't know. It was not likely that the healer was going to do anything adverse to her, not with the entire camp around them.

Cullen didn't move until someone dragged him aside by his arm, easily overpowering the weary Commander. He turned to snap at them, only to turn his verbal retort into a scowl once he recognised Cassandra.

"Let them work. There's nothing you can do now." Odd, she sounded almost gentle. Despite the roaring in his chest that demanded to stay right where he was, he let Cassandra pull him out of the tent. He stumbled over his own legs, eyes straining to concentrate, to focus on anything that was not moving around with dizzying speed.

"Are you quite alright?" Cassandra's worried frown was the last thing Cullen saw before sinking to his knees, gasping in cold air that sliced at his lungs. Judging by the burning sensation inside, the meagre meal he had devoured hours before heading out threatened to make a return. Cassandra helped him to a tree trunk that served as a seat, before ordering someone to bring him some soup. She stayed by his side as Cullen tried to overcome his dizziness. She was still there when the food arrived and remained there while he ate, her silent stoic presence helping him to keep a hold of his senses while he gulped down the hot soup, shaky hands barely holding on to the bowl.

"It's a miracle we didn't lose you both." Cassandra's voice was quiet, but with an edge to it. "Cullen, you cannot continue like this. You have to take into account that you are going through something that can kill people - that _has_ killed people! If you keep pushing yourself like this-"

She cut her words with an irritated noise, not finishing the sentence.

Cullen looked over the gathering crowd, eyebrows drawing together. They were pretending to be busy with something, but the darting looks sent towards the tent left no questions about their real purpose there. They were crowding her. She needed peace and quiet for healing.

He noticed his hand curling around the hilt of his weapon the same time as Cassandra did. He could have sworn she hissed at him. That made no sense. He let go of the sword anyway, realising what this must have looked like. He was losing control. He was not safe to be around like this. This was not how the Commander of the Inquisition's forces should act.

He set the empty bowl aside and pushed himself up, ignoring the protests of his muscles. "I'll take a walk." Cassandra remained at her post near the opening of the tent when Cullen rushed off, sending snow flying in his hurry to get away. There was nothing he could do to help her.

* * *

The next days passed at an excruciatingly slow pace. Afraid that his short temper would make him lash out, he avoided visiting Atheril. He patrolled around the tent instead, his scowl sending lurking soldiers who had been hoping to catch a glance at the Herald scurrying back to their posts.

His self-appointed guard duty was dotted by mealtimes, giving orders to scouts, accepting notes from messengers and attending council meetings that produced more stress and shouting than results. Atheril was doing poorly and everyone's nerves were at their last ends. People clung to the hope that she would get better, that the Herald would be able to lead squads to the rifts once more and bring peace to the land. With each passing day, that hope dwindled until the faces that had shown joy at Atheril's return had turned into masks of desperation.

Cullen lost track of days; they turned into a stream of restless sleep, food without taste and conversations with no end or meaning. What was the point of all that if she might not make it? What good did expanding their camp do if everyone would succumb to demons from the Fade unless Atheril was there to stop that? How would sending messengers to nearby lords and ladies grant them anything useful if they wouldn't be around to use that?

The sundown of a particularly difficult day left Cullen feeling crushed under the weight of responsibilities and worries. Another council meeting had ended in chaos, with Cullen and Leliana coming close to pitting soldiers against spies in a fit of rage. Only Josephine's diplomatic efforts and Cassandra's glare in Cullen's direction had managed to avert the bloodshed.

They were no closer to coming up with a plan that would save the Inquisition than they had been when Atheril was found. They had lost their base of operations and too many people to count. What hope did they have? Those who had been sticking around, waiting for a miracle to happen, had grown restless. Every day, they had some people leaving, ready to test their fate on their own as the Inquisition had nothing to offer to them anymore. It was only a matter of time until the cold mountains housed only the council, stuck in a perpetual state of bickering.

Cullen sighed, burying his face in gloved hands. The growing pile of reports next to him did nothing to ease his stress. Instead of doing something useful, he was a glorified clerk, going over paperwork. What was the point of that?

He looked up just in time to see Atheril emerging from the healers' tent, her customary hood pulled in place and teeth pressed together as she grasped a tent pole for support. Cullen's breath caught in his throat at the sight of her, so small and feeble next to the giant tent. She still didn't have her normal warm glow back, but at least there was no more blue tinge to her skin anymore. She looked worried though, like anyone in their camp.

He was about to push himself up from the bench to rush to her, but forced himself to stay in place. This was no time for public displays of affection or offers of support. The people needed to see her, to gain hope from the knowledge that she was strong enough to survive even this.

Cullen let his head sink down again. Without a place to go, even Atheril's growing strength wouldn't save them. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into the hard knots of stress under his skin. A surprising sound made him raise his head. A Chantry mother was singing, the rich timbre of her voice echoing through the mountains.

The song was old. It had been sung in Thedas for centuries, gaining popularity in dark times. It spoke of lost hope, of moments of despair… and of standing strong when all odds are against you and there seems to be no future awaiting you. There was no song more fitting for their current predicament.

The camp was stirring, people halting their conversations to turn towards the singer. A hush fell over the crowd as they saw their Herald standing on her own, the green light glowing in the dusk. Cullen's eyes followed the same path until he found his gaze resting on Atheril.

Her face, so full of pain and despair just moments before, was clearing up. Her lips quivered in the beginning of a smile as Leliana's clear voice joined, sending a shudder through the crowd. More voices were added to the choir. Atheril was openly smiling now, awe making her eyes gleam in the warm glow of the campfire.

A sweet pain caught hold of Cullen's heart. His own voice, saturated with emotions, added to the song, mixing with the sounds from the rest of the camp. People started moving towards Atheril, their faces wiped of worries, a glimmer of hope where sadness had been. Atheril's smile wavered and turned into wide-eyed bewilderment as people began to kneel in front of her one by one, the wave of movement spreading over the entire camp.

…almost the entire camp. Solas was standing near Cullen, a calculating look in his eyes. Sera was not kneeling either - if anything, she seemed to be a bit repulsed or even scared by the display. Cullen allowed himself a smile as he noticed that. Sera's reaction came as no surprise to him - the elf had made her opinion on kneeling and people-worship very clear from the day she joined them. She must have been doubting her involvement with the Inquisition at that point, seeing the open admiration of the people bowing to the Herald.

Cullen approached Atheril once the rest had finally returned to their posts and she was left alone near the tent. She looked so utterly overwhelmed by everything that Cullen couldn't help but smile at the way she looked at him, like he was her saviour in a way. That was of course ridiculous, but he could at least imagine she would be thinking that.

He had a small speech prepared, telling her how glad he was to see her doing better and that she had given a lot of people hope that day. The words died in his throat as he reached her and he ended up awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck instead.

"Cullen." She smiled at him, though her eyes were still laced with uncertainty. As much as he could see of her eyes, anyway. Perhaps the hood was growing larger. Hopefully it would stop growing before Atheril was completely devoured by it.

Cullen shook his head to get away from the wandering thoughts. That was not what he had gone to say. He had to take away the hesitation that was making her hunch, the fear haunting her eyes. He could help her.

"What you did in Haven… it was brave." A solid start. "Stupid, but brave." …and not so solid anymore. Cullen cringed.

Atheril bowed her head as chuckles shook her shoulders. "That is probably the best description of what happened." She looked up, her expression slightly relaxing as the corners of her mouth curved upwards in an amused smirk. Maker's breath, her smiles were making him dizzy. Especially when they were directed at him.

"How are you feeling?" Yet again, he was failing at casual conversation. She had nearly frozen to death and spent so many days either passed out or close to it that he didn't even know how long it had been. What an insensitive thing to ask.

She sighed and wrapped her arms around her waist. "Physically? Exhausted. Mentally however…" She locked her gaze in his, her eyes widening and eyebrows sloping downward. "I'm scared, Cullen. They all seem to think I'm some sort of saviour, that me being here is the miracle they need to survive. That's a lot of pressure on one person - who happens to have no idea what she's doing, just so you know."

Warmth spread in Cullen's chest, his affection for her only growing. He placed his hands on the sides of her shoulders, gripping them gently to emphasise his words. "You don't have to be a saviour or a miracle. For those people, you are the symbol of hope. Merely seeing you standing strong after facing what should have been certain death… it helps them believe that anything can happen and that the lands and people of Thedas could survive."

He gave her shoulders another squeeze, gently massaging her stress away. "The most important thing for you is to remember the person underneath what they see. I know it's a lot to take in, so see it as a mask of sorts. For them you may be the Herald." He paused, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, trying to clear his head that was crowded by the thoughts of her. "…but I can see Atheril. And the woman I see is strong and beautiful and she can do anything she sets her mind to."

A blush spread over her cheeks and she looked to the ground, a hand pressed to her lips. When she met his gaze again, her eyes had a wet gleam to them. "Thank you, Cullen." She looked over the camp that had turned from a hushed gathering to a celebratory mood, the chatter around the fires louder than it had been for days.

"They do sound more hopeful. I've been listening to the noises of the camp while I was lying down in the tent, and everything sounded so sad and disjointed… until they all started singing today. It was beautiful." She licked her lips, a pensive look on her face as she tilted her head towards him. "Think you could teach me that song?"

"Of course." He let go of her and offered his arm instead to lean on. "Let's take a walk, my lady."

She chuckled at that. "I'm no lady, but I'll gladly accept that offer." She slid her hand on his arm and they left for a walk, the glow of affection in Cullen's heart burning stronger with every moment. His Herald was safe and with him. The rest of the problems could be tackled when that time came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (May 23, 2016)
> 
> Hey dears,
> 
> unfortunately I have to put both my stories on a possibly month-long hiatus. Unexpected health issues aren't allowing me to keep writing for a while, but I will be back as soon as I can. I hope you can all understand and that you will return to this story once I am able to write again.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with this story and see you soon!


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